The Confession (Love Awakens part 3)
by A Romantic Enquiry
Summary: After professing their love for one another, Esme and Carlisle's relationship begins to get intimate. As their mutual desire becomes apparent though, it's clear that Carlisle has reservations about taking their relationship further. But not for the reasons that Esme suspects. Carlisle's POV. (Part 3 of my Carlisle/Esme series: Love Awakens.)
1. Chapter 1

Part 3: The Confession. 1921.

* * *

I watched her moving about the room, glancing up over the pages of my book. If she noticed my repeated gazes, she did not expose it. I was supposed to be reading, but I found her wonderfully distracting. She seemed quite content to be dusting the furniture, fussing over the way the curtains hung around the windows. It was daylight and, though we had moved outside of town in our new home, she kept the ivory lace pulled over the panes. The hazy light filtered through them, casting the shadow of the pattern in the fabric across her skin. The light that filtered through the tiny spaces in the fabric glinted off her skin.

She moved at a relaxed human pace, biting her lip at one point as she pushed herself up onto her toes to fuss with the valance. Reaching down, she pulled at the collar of her dress, brushing long, loose curls over her delicate shoulder. I could see the varying colors of the strands—blonde, light red, brown—that blended together beautifully. Smiling, she turned to face me, her fingers still running down one curl. It bounced back up, sliding around the tips of her slender fingers.

"What are you reading?" she asked me sweetly, noticing no doubt that I was not looking at the page at all. Instead, I found my eyes locked on the small hollow between her collar bones, the pale skin of her slender neck.

"A medical journal," I replied, disinterested in both the book and discussing it with her. I hadn't read any of it anyway for watching her. _I'm reading your every move_, I thought, _every flutter of your eyelashes, every soft fall of your feet on the floor, every nuance of your voice, the rich, fluid golden color of your irises, every curve of your body._

My thoughts drifted back to the night I had found her; she was being sent to the morgue, considered as good as dead. But I had heard it, felt it—the vague, fading beat of her heart. Before I had made the difficult decision to try to turn Edward, I had felt the obligation to his mother, the pity and sympathy for a young life being snuffed out so soon. I had felt the need for a companion, someone who I could share more truth about my existence than I could with others, even of our kind. I saw something behind the fading light in Edward's eyes that called to me. Edward was made for something more than this—something more than this sick young man who was wasting away in a hospital bed alone.

Esme though, Esme had been something completely different. The sheet had been pulled over her as if she was already dead. I contained my anger that someone had given up on her as hopeless. The faint pulsing of her blood through her veins had sent something like a shudder through me. I was not thirsty. I was not sensually tempted by the sight or smell of her blood which soaked through the white shroud. I was not desensitized to human blood; my disgust for murder simply overrode my lust for human blood somehow. It always had. Yet, I craved something about her. I would have died myself if it was possible, if it would strengthen that weak pulse of hers; for, when I pulled the sheet back from her face, I recognized her immediately.

I caught myself licking my lips, both in my memory and in the present. She was bent forward now, lips slightly parted, tucking her hair behind her ear as she reached forward to wipe off the table in front of me, but her eyes were locked on me. I was still baffled at times by my subconscious human reactions. I hadn't felt so human since I'd been turned than I did around Esme. The preservation, protection, and respect of life, of humanity had been the driving force of my ability to persevere for nearly three centuries, but this was different.

I remembered her in the hospital, how her face had been swollen, scratched, bruised. I had known without any further inspection that many of her bones were broken, shattered completely even. The internal bleeding was likely massive, with possible severe brain trauma. She didn't even know she was alive at the time, I had thought then. But I had seen beneath that, a face I remembered with a sad, determined smile. I saw the teenage girl sitting on the examination table, gritting her teeth as I set her broken leg. She had tears of pain in her eyes when she thanked me for taking care of her. Her face had matured. She had grown taller and more curvaceous, with the body of a woman, but her lips were the same, her long, delicate light brown eyelashes fell onto her cheeks the same way. She smelled the same.

I remembered her well. Columbus, Ohio. Esme Anne Platt, age sixteen. Admitted at 9:07 pm, August third, nineteen hundred and eleven. Transverse fracture of the left tibia. Other minor contusions and abrasions. Slightly accelerated heart rate but vitals normal. Alert, soft-spoken but talkative. Agreeable patient. Beautiful eyes.

And she had been lying before me dying then. I could still hear her speak in my mind, the way she lowered her voice and eyes when she had thanked me for doing my job. She hadn't complained; she had been a strong, adventurous, spirited girl. Yet, there she had lain with her body mangled, her life fading away—a suicide victim. It did not make sense. I could not imagine that sweet young girl, so full of life, that I had met wanting to die. _What happened to you, Esme?_ I wondered. I knew that she had not taken her own life—someone else had. Her heart was fighting to keep her alive. Her spirit was still thriving. I wanted nothing more than to make her suffering go away, to help her, heal her, save her.

"Esme," I said, leaning over her, wheeling her into the morgue. I saw a faint movement behind her eyelids. I knew she could hear me. I knew that she was trapped somewhere inside of her broken body, barely hanging onto life, in anguish.

I chastised myself for even thinking it now, but I could still feel the soft skin of her neck beneath my lips, the merest resistance it provided in vain, being no obstacle for razor sharp vampire teeth. It had been punctured so easily, almost like it wanted to be broken. I had tried to focus on the task at hand. This was not a pursuit of pleasure, I had reminded myself, trying to focus on her weak heartbeat and subtle breathing. But the taste of her blood flooded my mouth, and though she was dying, it was warm and rich and unique and intoxicating.

It was only the second time in the almost three hundred years of my vampire existence that I had tasted human blood, and suddenly I knew what it was that drove others to madness and made them beasts. I craved more of her wildly. I was surprised by the deep growl in my throat that emerged as the taste of her filled me, rushing straight into every cell of my body, possessing and sating me fully. It was my single most sensual and satisfying experience to date—killing this beautiful woman. But I knew she would reawaken. I justified my thoughts by telling myself I was saving her.

I pulled myself away for a moment, questioningly. She had begun to stir though, and I knew the venom had entered her bloodstream. There was no going back now, no time for second guesses or regrets.

Yet, when her life finally faded, I found myself coming to some new state of awareness. Had I really given into my nature that deeply, I had questioned, cursing myself. I found the fingers of one hand tangled in her damp, blood-stained hair, the other crushing her slim shoulder under my grip. Her body, lifeless, breathless, silent beneath mine. For a brief moment, I hated myself.

Then, she moved beneath me, her back arching, head falling back, mouth open, eyes closed tightly. She didn't gasp or breathe. Her heart wasn't beating, but it was not quiet in her body. I could hear it working, the subtle cracking of bone going back into place, skin suturing itself back together. I knew the intensity of her pain; I remembered it well, but she didn't cry out. After a moment, she relaxed fully as if completely exhausted, looking up at me with her brown eyes, now flooding with red, full of pain, helpless, afraid.

"Don't worry, Esme," I said, taking her into my arms to carry her out of the hospital, to take her home and let the changes transform her broken body into something whole and strong. "You are going to be just fine," I promised.

"Dr. Cullen?" she asked weakly, her head falling against my shoulder. I knew what the change would do to her. I'd seen it before, but it baffled me how she could possibly ever be any more beautiful than she already was.

I wasn't sure what exactly drove the craving I still had for her. Her heart was not beating, no blood flowed in her veins, but my desire to taste her had somehow been amplified after she was drained of blood. I had tried to deny it, questioned it, pushed it away, but I knew that wanting her was something more than a lingering human desire for companionship or emotional attachment.

We developed a closeness very quickly that was something more than her simply seeing me as her tutor in her new experience and her as my protégée. We didn't simply agree with each other on any given topic: our discussions actually challenged each other, increased our understanding, brought something additional for the other to consider. She expressed a gentle kind of love in everything that she did unlike any I ever known. I had been many things, but never the object of the kind of tender affection she showed me. We made good partners—accomplishing together what neither of us alone could do. And we had already made it clear that we were mutually in love. She left no doubt about the fact that she was attracted to me, and I had never wanted anyone with the depth and capacity of desire I harbored for her.

I knew vampires who had mates, spouses, intimate partners, but the details, the experience of the complex entanglement of motivations and drives for such an exclusive emotional and physical bond had evaded me. I realized that I, like some physician who had never himself suffered real pain or sickness or the death of one close to him, knew all the mechanics but understood nothing about how it actually felt.

Now though, as she smiled sweetly at me, sitting down beside of me, her body brushing mine slightly in places—her thigh against mine, her shoulder against my arm—I felt I was beginning to grasp both my ignorance and longing to be enlightened. I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. I had been twenty-three when I was turned—attacked one night by surprise by a rogue vampire who abandoned me to whatever fate. I had been well old enough to understand the fight against the deadly sin of lust.

My father was a minister, and I was to follow his path. My calling in life was to fight the evils that lured men into damnation. I tried to please my father, set a good example in the community we ministered to, but I realized now that I was still only beginning to understand myself and establish my individual beliefs when my human life had been snatched from me. I found my physical cravings easy to curb, as compared with the wild, almost incontrollable temptation my peers seemed so victimized by. Did this make me truly a man of God, I had questioned then, looking for validation and guidance down a path that my heart had never been set on. It seemed almost laughable in ways now. It was easy to do without something you never really wanted that badly anyway, something I had never had to come to terms with as a human.

My youth had been consumed with chasing after evils, not the girls in the village. I was studious and hungry for knowledge. My father had been a selfish man who was more interested in grooming me to carry on his legacy. He knew I was smart and thought I could salvage his reputation, even in the days when witch hunting was falling out of favor. The Cullens were devoted to purifying society, or so he wanted people to think. Finding a wife for his son was the least of his concerns, and this had not bothered me, even long after I left my father's side and abandoned his ways, and long after his death, never had I been in love—until Esme.


	2. Chapter 2

I often wondered how much we stagnated, how much of us was simply on loop from life. Did we ever really feel or experience anything new? How many of our thoughts, actions, reactions, emotions, words, expressions were just programmed into us? I knew that my senses had been heightened, my strength increased. I had no immunity to disease and no need for it. I theorized that the venom our vampire bodies produced would kill anything they came in contact with anyway. That was, after all, part of its function. It infiltrated our every cell before death, altering our very cellular programming.

We didn't grow, change, our cells don't regenerate. Therefore our brain cells do not die. Our minds work at least at the capacity they had when we were turned, but the transformation seemed to awaken at least a portion of the brain that did not serve any measurable function in mortal life. Our senses were heightened, strength increased, every ailment or imperfection corrected. And we could learn. So could we feel, could we experience and process new emotions? It seemed so.

Clearly, our bodies were not quite as dead as they seemed. We never sleep; we have no need for it. Therefore, we do not dream. We, or at least I, have a great capacity for curiosity and an endless interest in the pursuit of knowledge. This means that I spend a great deal of time just thinking about things, slipping into long periods of meditative contemplation that vaguely reminds me of the mortal experience of dreaming.

The knowledge that Esme inspired me to seek was multi-faceted, complex, deep. I thought often of God because of her. I had never questioned the existence of some divine force, but I had questioned whether or not I was lost to that force in my state of existence. How could I have been forsaken and be blessed with someone like her?

She got up again, walking back over to the window, gazing out. "We should welcome our new neighbors," she stated. They were strolling down the road again: a young newlywed couple who had moved into a small cottage about a mile away from our house.

"Yes," I agreed.

"Do you think it's been long enough, but not too long?" she asked, sounding worried. I knew she wanted to give them a bit of privacy to settle into their home, but she didn't want them to think us rude or unwelcoming.

"They've been there for a few days. I think it's perfect timing," I answered.

"I think I'll put together a basket for them," Esme said idly. "I'm not sure I remember how to cook, even though it hasn't been that long."

"You didn't forget," I assured her. "You just have no interest in doing it now. It will come back to you, if you can tolerate the smell."

She nodded. I locked my eyes back onto the words on the page when she had been silent for a moment.

"I wonder what it feels like to make love as a vampire," she said. Her voice was distant, her tone thoughtful and inquisitive, the young couple in mind no doubt. I questioned if that meant she was unfilled. "Do vampires make love?" she asked.

She turned her head toward me, curls swinging over her shoulder as she did. We have the ability to be suddenly, wildly, ravenously aroused, I wanted to say to her, imaging her caramel tresses spread out around her head, her lips parted, not with a silent scream of pain beneath me as they had been the night I had turned her, but in pleasure. I never imagined her silent either; I imagined her sighs and soft cries of ecstasy to match mine. Was it something I had learned to imagine though, I questioned.

"The physical ability to have sex remains," I answered her honestly.

She nodded, but her brows furrowed and she frowned slightly, turning her gaze back out the window. She shifted her weight to one foot, her hips tilting, spine curving. It was such a human action. I forgot myself for a moment again as I walked up behind her.

"Does that not answer your question?" I asked. It was a wicked thing to do. I wasn't sure if it was normal, or selfish, or wrong, or all three, but I wanted to know if she wanted me too.

This time when she turned around, her hair brushed across my shoulder, and I realized just how close I was standing to her, but I didn't back up. Her eyes locked on mine, and she leaned back against the window frame.

"I still feel desire," she said, speaking it like a forbidden confession. "No, that's not true," she corrected, her gaze steady on me, "I feel a kind of desire that is far beyond anything I've known before."

I stood looking into her eyes, not knowing how to answer her unless I told her that I felt the same way. It seemed more than simply improper though. I was afraid. I took her hand and led her back to the couch. I thought I was prepared to tell her then, but, as soon as we were seated, she spoke first.

"Kiss me," she requested, her voice low and seductive.

I knew that I didn't want to stop myself completely. I did want her to know that I wanted her. Fully assured that we could have mutual command over the situation, I graciously consented. And just like the night I turned her, my self-control slipped. Suddenly, my arms were fast around her slim body, holding her tightly against me. As our kiss deepened, I leaned toward her. She could have fought me, but she chose to surrender, sinking back down onto the couch. I followed instantly, missing the feel of her even with just inches between us.

The passion escalated much quicker than I anticipated. She reached up and grabbed a handful of my hair, holding my mouth against hers, kissing me hungrily. Instead of protesting like a gentleman, my hand immediately slid around her thigh as she lifted her legs toward my waist. I felt the soft cloth of her dress, the top of her stocking, the clips of the garter that held it in place, the smooth skin above it. At the same time, she slid her free arm around me, her hand at my lower back. She pulled me to her, leaving no doubt about just how aroused we had made the other.

I barely had time to process the rush of feeling her body, so intimately desirous of mine, created in me, even with the swiftness of thought and reaction our kind have. I felt alive for a moment, like my entire body was shaking with want of her. Then, I lost all ability to concentrate. As soon as my body was pressed against hers with nothing more than a few layers of cloth between us, her lips abandoned mine. Her head fell back against the couch. She cried out softly, sounding almost tearful.

I felt like I couldn't hold myself up any longer from weakness on the inside, though my body remained steady. Some gripping sensation raced through me. It was as if a pure opiate had shot through my veins: hot and consuming. The sound from her lips nearly drove me over the edge of control. I wanted to give her a kind of pleasure she had never known. I wanted her desperate for me. I wanted to push her to some place I was so fearful of going—into unadulterated satisfying sensation.

My fantasies overtook me then, of what it would be like to feel her naked body beneath me, her hips rocking up to meet mine, equally as feverous to have me inside of her as I was to be there. It was more than a physical craving though. I wanted to be joined to her completely and in every way possible. I thought about it quite often, about us growing ever closer to one another, about satisfying her in every way.

In my mind, I was everything that she wanted. In my thoughts, I sated her every desire, in ways and more completely than anyone ever had. But, in reality, I knew she had been married, bore a child, and though she had begun to open up to me about the horrors of what her marriage had become, she was an experienced woman who knew what it was to be with a man. And this moment between us, though it crossed the lines of propriety by far, was nothing in comparison to what she had already felt, but it was the most sexually intimate experience I had ever had. I knew I had reached the point where I had to either stop or continue—once the choice was made, there was no taking it back.

She put her hand on my chest over the silent cavity of my heart, her cheek against mine.

"I want_ you_ to make love to me, Carlisle," she whispered.

I was surprised that my reaction emerged audibly from my throat, some strange mix of a sigh, moan, and growl. I paused for a moment, allowing the words to fully sink in and savor the sensation it created in my body. Her fingers curled, gripping a handful of my shirt then, and my thoughts drifted to wondering what it would feel like to have her take my clothes off. I closed my eyes briefly, forcing myself to focus.

I didn't know how I should respond, so I kissed her. Our embrace immediately became more passionate as my lips trailed down over her chin and neck, all the way to her collar bones. I daringly opened my mouth and tasted her skin. I heard her make a sound, something akin to a gasp. She tipped her head back, her back arching up off the couch, pressing her breasts against me. I tangled my free hand in her hair to stop myself touching her the way I wanted to. But still, I kissed my way across her collarbones to where her dress was slipping over her shoulder then back up to her open lips.

I whispered her name several times between fervent kisses as her hand slid down my chest and stomach. She responded with soft moans against my mouth. When her fingers slipped under the waistband of my trousers, I helplessly let out a sharp cry of pleasure.

I had my eyes closed tightly. My head actually swam with ecstasy as she touched me. I reached over her shoulder to steady myself against the arm of the couch. My body truly trembled with pleasure. In some way, it was a refreshing reaction. She had reached down with her other hand, tugging at my belt, loosening my clothes to arouse me further. Both of her hands were fully focused on exploring my body, but when I finally opened my eyes, her gaze was locked on my face longingly.

I pulled my hand from her hair, feeling the soft strands coil from my fingers. I ran my hand down her neck, shoulders, over her breast to her stomach, my fingers shaking more the lower they went. When my fingertips slipped past her navel, her eyelids fluttered, lips falling open. I wanted so desperately to touch her everywhere, to memorize the feel of her entire body, to savor every reaction. I knew we should not be doing this, but my inner voice of reason had been reduced to barely a whisper—everything else in me screamed out with a primal need to gratify us both.

My hand ran between us down her inner thigh daringly. I don't know what I expected actually, but a surprising thrill came over me as my fingers slipped under the cloth of her undergarments. She didn't feel cold or warm—we generate no body heat. Therefore, it was not a distraction from feel of her skin. I was not only overwhelmed at how aroused she was already, but by how rapidly her need obviously grew under my careful exploration. I found myself captivated by her reactions, and it became easy to take things farther and farther until one of my fingers entered her.

I couldn't stop myself from moaning aloud.

"Oh, Carlisle!" she cried breathlessly in response, her voice quavering. Her free hand reached up and gripped my upper arm tightly. I felt her body tense and tremble with desire and knew that my own reaction must not have been simply internal.

At the sound of her voice, a sinking feeling overtook me as my passion quickly began to culminate. I released my hold on her, grabbed her wrist and tugged on her hand sharply. I became very nervous suddenly. How could I ever satisfy such a sensual, ardent woman who made me nearly climax with only a few touches?

"I'm sorry," I said, sitting up. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't behave that way with you."

She blinked up at me, unmoving. It seemed like an eternal silent moment before she spoke ,and I distracted myself with combing my fingers through my hair to right it. Esme was staring at me intently. She sat up and smoothed down a strand of my hair, her fingertips brushing mine.

"You don't have to apologize," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes, I do," I corrected her. "You know that I love you. I want you more than anything," I started. "But…" I found that I could not bring myself to utter the words. What would she think of me? Would she change her mind about how she felt? Would she believe me? Would she find me sympathetic or, worse, feel sorry for me? Would she think me inadequate, laughable, ridiculous?

"But?" she asked.

"I can't do this," I chose over the alternative, standing up and straightening my clothes.

Esme didn't respond. She got up slowly, not even looking at me. I watched her walk across the room slowly to the staircase. I almost said something, but I didn't know what to say. Instead, I just went through the kitchen and out the backdoor, heading deep into the forest.


	3. Chapter 3

I returned home over an hour later to find Edward and Esme sitting at our dining room table. It was a beautiful antique piece we had merely for show and because Esme was so fond of it. She has an eye for things that are poetic in design, things that are old, things that had been abandoned and neglected, forgotten by others. She saw the beauty in them and carefully, lovingly restored them to a glory that perhaps surpassed their original state. I thought how very appropriately that talent of hers applied to me as well.

But she didn't even look my way when I stepped into the doorway. Instead, she rose from her chair, wishing Edward goodnight and walked past me and up the stairs. It reminded me painfully of the moment I'd left earlier, and I chastised myself yet again for doing it. Her arm barely brushed mine as she walked past, but it was enough to awaken my entire body with the memory of her touch, the taste of her lips, the sound of her voice passionately saying my name. And now she wouldn't even look at me.

Edward glanced up at me with one eyebrow raised, waiting until we heard her door shut before speaking. I walked over to the table and sat down across from him.

"What did you do to her?" he asked. "I asked her where you were when I came in, and she nearly bit my head off."

I silently forgave him for the intrusive, forward way of questioning me. After all, he was both young and very close to me; we had easily become as close as family, closer, in fact, than the only family I had known during life.

I shook my head. I knew precisely what I'd done, but I didn't want to talk about it. I'd hurt her feelings, perhaps irrevocably. I'd made a complete fool of myself. I had failed her and myself. Everything had been perhaps too perfect and easy between us to be real, as I had feared almost from the moment our relationship had so quickly begun. It seemed that it should have been more complicated to fall so deeply in love with someone else, but it had not been so up until now.

"Whatever it is, you had better go fix it," Edward said after a moment. "You know that she is perfect for you. I've never seen you so happy. Esme's obviously in love with you too."

I hadn't spoken in much detail about my feelings for Esme to Edward. I wasn't sure how much, if anything, she had told him. But I knew that we didn't have to say anything to him. He had the astounding talent of receiving others' thoughts and was just playing the motivator. Or perhaps our affection for one another was just so obvious that it couldn't be missed.

"Don't mess it up," he said with a slight half-smile as he rose from the table, patting me on the shoulder as he passed.

"I appreciate your faith in me," I replied with a hint of sarcasm.

Edward chuckled. "Anytime, Dr. Cullen," he said as he headed out the door with a wave.

I paused at the bottom of the stairs before deciding not to hesitate any longer. This behavior compromised the very foundations of our relationship, which had been built on trust and honesty. I knocked softly on Esme's door. She did not respond, but I knew she was in there.

I had reached a point where I was less afraid of being invasive and ungentlemanly and having her more angry at me than I was of losing my nerve about trying to explain myself. I tried the doorknob tentatively to find that it was unlocked.

"Esme," I said as I cracked the door.

Still, she did not respond, but I found her sitting on her bed with her knees pulled up, her arms hugged around them with her face buried in the white cotton of a simple white nightdress. It was a habit she retained from life, which I asked her about once since she did not need to go to bed. Still, she insisted on keeping a full bedroom suit, including the bed, and her nightclothes. She said that it made her comfortable and helped her connect with humanity.

I realized that she was shaking with emotion, as if she was crying silently, though I knew she had no real tears. The effect was somehow more upsetting than if she had been actually sobbing though when she looked up at me with such pain in her eyes.

"May I come in?" I asked, still standing in the doorway. Then, before she even had time to reply, I knew I was acting a fool again.

I walked over, sitting beside of her and taking her in my arms. To my relief, she consented, though not quite sinking against me as fully as usual.

"I'm so sorry," I said, kissing her hair. "You have every right to be angry at me. . ."

"I'm not angry at you," she interrupted. "I'm just ashamed of myself."

"Why?" I asked quickly, genuinely surprised.

"Sometimes I just wish we were human," Esme said, pulling at the nightgown as she shifted to tuck her feet under her. "Then, maybe this would be easier."

"I doubt that," I answered. "Besides, if we were, we never would have met. You know, that for over two centuries, I've questioned myself about the point, if there was a point at all, in what happened to me. I wanted so desperately to destroy myself in the beginning. I could not live with the torment of needing to destroy life, of the idea of being rejected by God as I had been taught, for something that I felt I didn't choose. Perhaps though, I did choose it in some ways. I could have been disobedient, rebelled against my father, my only family, and the only hope of a successful future that I saw as a widowed minister's only son. It was the only time I've felt truly victimized though, in those months after being turned. But, still, I refused to be something I knew I was not."

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked. It wasn't a question of frustration but genuine curiosity.

"Because perhaps I was not worthy of you when I was merely human anyway," I replied. "Perhaps I had to learn what I did about myself during the transformation, through all this time of loneliness."

"I cannot imagine you not being worthy of me," Esme replied softly. "I had already accepted that I would never have a man like you before I gave up. . . completely."

I looked at her questioningly. I didn't have to prompt her further for an explanation, though she could not read my thoughts like Edward. She smiled up at me sadly.

"I think I began falling in love with you the night you took care of my broken leg when I was a teenager. I wouldn't have called it that until just recently though. I never thought of myself as in love with you, but it just took that brief meeting for me to idealize you. And not just because you're the handsomest man I've ever seen." She paused, looking into my eyes, this time with a smile of amusement at herself. "You are far better than even what I imagined based on the kindness you showed me that night. I don't want to make you feel obligated for this to be more than you want it to be. No matter what, I've never been happier than I am with you."

In response, I kissed her. It was a rather bold move considering the circumstances, even if things did seem smoother between us than they had been when I'd entered the room. I was astounded that she thought the issue was a lack of interest on my part. The kiss very easily became passionate, heated, and deep. I tasted her until I once again felt helpless with a desire for her that moved me so deeply I couldn't believe that I no longer had a soul.

"Esme," I said softly against her ear finally as she clung to me desperately once again. I could feel her yearning for me as if it was something physically notable from her body, like a real heat that didn't exist. It was both reassuring and exciting. I wasn't sure how to define it, but I hoped she felt the same from me. "Would you believe me if I told you that you are the first and only woman I have ever loved?"

"Ever?" she asked hesitantly.

"Ever," I assured her, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes. "My mortal life was consumed with preparing to follow my father in the ministry and set an example in my community. It's not that I didn't ever experience lust, but there were other things far more important than some distracting temptation. I don't want you to think I feel that way about you—that I just want you simply for my own pleasure."

"I know what it feels like to be treated like that," she responded, averting her eyes. "And you never have done anything to make me believe you think of me that way. I don't want you to think that about me. I love you, Carlisle. I love you in ways that I never even imagined anyone was capable of loving someone else."

I watched her as she made this earnest confession and knew it was my turn next. "I feel as if I've spent all this time waiting for you, for us to be together. Sometimes I'm afraid that I won't live up to your expectations, and now to know you've been thinking of me as perfect since you were sixteen. . ." I allowed my words to trail off as she leaned her head on my shoulder.

She gave a slight laugh in reply.

"I mean it," I answered quickly. "I really have neither loved nor wanted anyone the way I love and want you. When I touch you," I felt my voice nearly give way in quite a human manner, "when I think about making love to you, it's almost overwhelming. I have been on this Earth for so long now, always believing in love, seeing it despite the many, great evils of the world, but I've never felt it in this sense. I've never loved anyone this way or made love to anyone and the fear of disappointing you consumes me sometimes. I want everything to be perfect, like I said earlier."

Esme looked up at me then, her eyes full of emotion. I felt that strange mix of strong gravity toward her but also as if nothing grounding around me existed, like I was floating on air, as the saying goes. I wanted to know so badly what she was thinking, but I also knew I had to finish telling her everything I wanted to say, even if it had not been planned this way at all. I had everything worked out in my head about how it should all be, but I suddenly felt that I could not go on for another moment without her knowing the full capacity of how I felt for her. I hoped, perhaps naively, that she would never again question my love or longing or need for her afterward.

"I want us to be together forever, Esme," I continued. "I want to give myself fully, to take you as mine completely in my heart and soul and arms in our marriage bed."

The silence that followed seemed longer than all the prior years of my existence somehow, even though it only lasted a few seconds.

"Carlisle, you want me to be your wife?" Her voice was just as laced with emotion as her eyes had already been.

"More than anything," I replied, standing up and taking her hand. "Get dressed. There's something I want to show you."


End file.
